The Referral
by alcimines
Summary: Reality intrudes into the lives of Spider-Man, Daredevil, and Black Widow. And decisions have to be made.


THE REFERRAL

_[I was angry when I wrote this - and then I let it sit on my hard-drive for a long time. I suppose it bothered me that it names real people, even though the real people in question are scum._

_Well, one man is dead (no, I don't believe he committed suicide) and the other is going to jail for a long, long time. Maybe forever. So I decided to finally post this story.]_

Sandra was feeling both surprised and distant. That's hard to do at the same time, but she was managing it.

After all, it wasn't every day that a super-hero showed up on your balcony. And this one had appeared out of nowhere. One second, Sandra was alone and thinking about... things. And the next, a red-and-blue apparition dropped out of the sky and landed right next to her.

"You're Spider-Man," Sandra said slowly. Then she actually blushed as she realized just how dumb she sounded. Sandra was used to people having that kind of surprised and star-struck reaction to her, not the other way around.

The colorful figure crouched on the balcony railing - twenty-three stories above street-level - nodded his head.

"Yep. That's me," he replied.

Then he tilted his head, looking closer as Sandra. "Hey... do I know you? Are you famous or something?"

Despite herself, Sandra smiled. "I'm an actress. I've been in some movies."

The mask on Spider-Man's face moved in a way that told Sandra he was returning her smile. "An actress, huh? And in the movies! I know someone like that."

Sandra would tell that he was talking about a woman. And that woman was important to him. And as Sandra let her eyes trail over Spider-Man's lean form, it occurred to her that whoever that woman was, she was lucky.

For a moment, Sandra wondered if she knew Spider-Man's friend. The movie world was bigger than most people realized. So while not everyone who worked in the business knew each other, shared acquaintances were common.

"What movies have you been in?" Spider-Man asked eagerly.

That was a completely reasonable and normal question. It was just odd to hear it from a super-hero.

Sandra listed her filmography. It was brief but respectable.

"Okay, I've heard of all of those - except for the cheerleader movies," Spider-Man replied after Sandra was done. "But I don't think I've seen any of them. Tell you what, I promise to see one the next time I have the chance. I mean one of your real movies... not the cheerleader movies. Uh, not that those aren't real movies! It's just... Uhm..."

He was obviously becoming flustered.

"It's okay if you think they're really dumb, because they are," Sandra told him with a tired grin. "But they were where I got my start. In both movies, I was the mean and bossy head-cheerleader who got what was coming to her. I showed a lot of skin in the first movie. Not as much in the second."

Spider-Man nodded agreeably. "Hey, everyone's gotta start somewhere," he replied.

Sandra thought that Spider-Man's embarrassment was actually kind of adorable. But in his confusion, his voice had slipped just a bit. He tried to hide it, but he actually had a Queen's accent. It was Sandra's understanding that secret-identities were important to super-heroes. It seemed to her that Spider-Man should be more careful about that sort of mistake, although he did have a reputation for being one of the less traditional and more easy-going heroes.

A stray gust of wind caught Sandra's hair, making it whip around her head like a blonde banner. The wind also gave a suggestive tug on the light robe she was wearing. Sandra quickly grabbed at the belt holding her robe shut.

Then Sandra glanced over the balcony railing. The street was so far below. The cars were smaller than toys. People were just moving dots.

After that speculative glance, Sandra looked up at Spider-Man.

"I wasn't going to jump," she heard herself say.

"I'm glad to hear that," Spider-Man replied quietly. He was suddenly looking at Sandra in a very still and serious way. Sandra uneasily wondered what kind of strange senses a Spider-Man might have. Could he feel minute vibrations? Smell emotions? Or know when someone was lying?

What did he know about her?

"Okay, I may have been thinking about jumping," Sandra admitted. "But I'd never actually do something like that. It would be stupid. And messy. And I'd be too scared. I guess I was just feeling down."

Spider-Man nodded his head. And he didn't move from where he was sitting on the railing. It occurred to Sandra that he was keeping her within easy grabbing range.

"Have you ever seen someone jump?" Sandra heard herself ask. It occurred to her that she was doing a bad job of getting across the idea that she was actually fine. Some actress she was turning out to be.

There was a long pause before Spider-Man answered.

"I've seen people jump," he told Sandra. "But sometimes they just fall. Or get thrown."

"Do always you catch them?" Sandra asked. Then wretchedly realized that she'd just asked a question that was perhaps too personal.

There was another long pause.

"I lost one," Spider-Man said quietly.

Sandra rubbed her eyes. There was something about the last thing Spider-Man had said. Who knew that a man in a mask could be so unconsciously expressive? The person that he failed to catch had meant something to him.

"I'm sorry," Sandra responded awkwardly.

"It was close," Spider-Man told her distantly. "I just needed a little more time. But I couldn't get to her. I just couldn't. So I snagged her with a webline, but it..."

Then Spider-Man seemed to pull himself away from whatever - whoever - was haunting him.

"So what brings you up here?" he said. His tone was almost back to being conversational. And he was obviously trying to change the subject.

"Well... this is my hotel room," Sandra said.

Spider-Man nodded. "Nice place - a good example of Art Deco. A couple of years back I got into a slugging match with Doc Ock down in the lobby. We fought our way all the way up to the roof. He cleaned my clock, but I tracked him down later on."

"Do you get into a lot of fights?" Sandra asked. "I mean... on TV you always seem to be fighting someone."

Spider-Man shrugged. "It comes with the job. Look, you're doing a good job of avoiding my question. And if you don't want to talk, I get it. But I was swinging past and there was something about the way you were leaning against the rail. It looked... kinda off."

Sandra put on her best carefree smile. "I'm an actress, Spider-Man. That means I'm naturally melodramatic."

Spider-Man nodded. Then he examined her closer.

"So why have you been crying?" he asked.

There was a small table and a chair on the patio. On the table was a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Sandra moved back from the balcony rail, sat at the table, and carefully lit a cigarette. Normally, she never let anyone see her smoke. She didn't want to encourage bad behavior by younger fans.

"You ever hear of a man named Goldstein?" she asked.

Spider-Man shook his head.

"He's a money-man and a movie producer. He makes high-end pictures that not many people see but are always nominated for Oscars. He's one of those guys you've never heard of, but who are really important."

Then Sandra paused as she breathed out a plume of smoke.

"You haven't really made it until you've been in one of his movies," she added.

Spider-Man nodded.

Sandra gave Spider-Man a long and searching look. "So a year ago, I walked into Goldstein's office determined to get into his latest movie. He has a reputation as a lady's man and I thought I could use that against him."

Still not saying anything, Spider-Man cocked his head slightly.

Although her cigarette was barely done, Sandra stubbed it out anyway. "Things started happening. And then, much to my surprise, I found out that I was a little more old-fashioned than I thought. He was all over me, pawing and groping. And he wouldn't let me go. So I slugged him just below the ribs and took off at a dead run. I got out of his office so fast that I left my shoes behind."

Spider-Man chuckled. "Good for you," he said.

"I have two older brothers," Sandra said with a shrug. "They taught me how to throw a punch."

Then Spider-Man's eyes narrowed. "But if that was a year ago..."

Sandra shrugged again. "Remember what I said about Goldstein being important? All of Hollywood kisses his ass. And after I pissed him off, he put the word out on me. I haven't worked since then. Producers used to call me. Now I can't get their secretaries to return my calls. I spent today trying to call in some old favors, but I didn't have any luck. It looks like I'm out of work forever."

"Crap," Spider-Man said in disgust.

* * *

"Is your friend okay?" Matt Murdock asked. He was obviously worried.

They were sitting in a Times Square coffee-shop, drinking coffee that was expensive even by coffee-shop standards. Not for the first time, or the last, Matt was paying.

Peter shrugged. "I spent the night hanging around her hotel. She didn't go out on the balcony again. When I got creepy enough to peek into her window, she was asleep. Wow, did that feel weird."

Matt drummed his fingers against the table. "I don't like what you're telling me, but is this really our kind of a problem?"

Peter made a helpless gesture with his hands. "I know what you're saying. It's not a bunch of guys robbing a bank. Or a mugger shaking down a family who took a dumb shortcut down an alley. Or a nut in a purple and green suit yelling about how he's going to show the guys back at mad-scientist school that they shouldn't have laughed at him."

"Why bring this to me?" Matt asked.

"This is more of a legal problem. That's your sort of thing."

"Is Sandra willing to press charges?" Matt asked dubiously.

Peter made a face, "Her precise words were 'fuck no'."

Then Peter took a sip from his coffee cup. "You have something I don't - contacts in the law. I mean something beyond the one-or-two cops who are actually willing to talk to me. Could you check on this Goldstein guy? I'm willing to bet that Sandra isn't the only girl he's messed with."

Matt raised a reddish eyebrow. "You think Sandra would be willing to talk to the police if she isn't the only one?"

Peter looked down at the coffee in his cup and swirled it. "Maybe. And having the law handle this is probably the best solution. Things can get weird when the bad guy is somebody in a suit and tie."

Matt considered that - and then nodded his head in agreement.

* * *

"I'm not that sort of woman," Sonia said desperately. She'd been calm when Matt first visited her, but now she was close to tears.

"Yes, miss," Matt said soothingly.

Even by movie-industry standards, Sonia was a beautiful woman. Down in Brazil she'd earned a reputation as a talented and rising actress. And then she came to New York in an effort to advance her career. That went right to hell after she met Goldstein.

"He wanted me to do things!" Sonia said frantically. "But I said no! And then he started touching me! Undressing me! I opened the car door and jumped out!"

A deeply angry friend of Matt had given him a list of names. The names had come up during an NYPD investigation that was abruptly and mysteriously terminated. Sonia was the last name on the list. Not all of the women on the list had talked to Matt, but those who did had all told him pretty much the same story as Sonia.

"I went to the police," Sonia said as she rubbed tears from her eyes.

Matt nodded slowly. He knew what was coming.

"I went to the police," Sonia repeated anxiously. "But they didn't do anything."

* * *

Matt and Peter were back in the same coffee-shop. This time Peter paid for the drinks, but he had to empty his wallet and then count out pocket change to cover the bill. Matt was being very careful to nurse his drink.

"So what did you get?" Peter asked.

Matt made a disgusted face. "Mr. Goldstein routinely assaults young actresses. Eventually, at least one of his victims went to NYPD."

Peter considered that. "And?"

"They put a wire on her and had her meet with Goldstein again."

Peter looked surprised. "What happened?"

Matt sighed. "Goldstein acted the same way as he did the first time, but what he did and said was recorded."

"So..." Peter said slowly.

"And then the DA decided not to prosecute," Matt said very flatly.

Peter gave Matt a long and hard look. "What the hell?"

"Peter... some people have the resources to fight a legal case until doomsday. A lot of time and effort is lost and the end result will be a dismissed case or a sentence so light that it's frivolous. Meanwhile, those same resources could have been used to pursue other cases. I don't like that, but it's true."

Then Matt's mouth became a hard and grim line. "Some would say the DA had to make a tough call - and he did just that. Others would note that Mr. Goldstein is part of the Hollywood machine that's very political. He's a major donor to the mayor and the governor. And if he wants, he can pick up a phone and talk to a former President of the United States. Those are people who could make it impossible for an ambitious DA to go any further in terms of a political career."

"But for whatever reason, the DA decided not to pursue the case and there are people both in the DA's office and in the NYPD who aren't happy about that."

Peter stared at nothing in particular for a long time. "Oh, yeah," he said finally. "That's part of the reason we put on masks and beat up bad guys. I forgot."

Matt didn't say anything. He wasn't sure what to say.

Peter stood up and reached for his jacket. Matt couldn't see Peter's face, but he could sense the storm of emotions playing through the younger man. Matt knew he couldn't just let Peter leave. He might do something rash.

"We're going to refer this," Matt told Peter suddenly.

Peter already had one arm in his jacket but he hesitated.

"Refer it? What do you mean?" Peter asked.

"In the legal field, sometimes you encounter a case that doesn't quite fit into your range of expertise. You then refer the case to someone with more specialized knowledge or skills. Doctors do the same thing. Actually, I suppose you could say that's what happened when you came to me."

Peter nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess you're right. So who do you want to refer this to?"

"Someone scary."

"Some people would say that's us," Peter pointed out.

"Not quite. Maybe to thugs and gangsters, but even there we have reputations as guys who won't go too far. That won't work for us here. Part of the problem is that Goldstein is used to winning. Used to dealing with people who are playing by some sort of rules while he does whatever he wants. He's been getting his way for a long time. We need him to know right up front that it's over and that he's lost."

Peter considered that. "Look... we're not calling Frank about this. Right?"

Matt shook his head. "Logan's also out. They're both tempting, but neither of us really want to go that far."

"So who does that leave?" Peter asked slowly. Then he stopped.

He knew who Matt was talking about.

* * *

This time, Matt and Peter were meeting in a high-end bar. It was the natural habitat of the person who would be the third member of their party.

Natasha entered the bar and made a gesture towards the bartender. The man smiled at her and began mixing a complex cocktail. Natasha chatted with him as he worked. Eventually, the bartender handed Natasha her drink with a flourish.

Holding her drink in one hand, Natasha walked to the table where Matt and Peter were sitting. In her other hand she had a bundle of manilla file folders.

Sitting down, Natasha put the file folders in the center of the table. Then she dropped a flash drive on top of the pile.

"Goldstein is talking to the police right now," Natasha said calmly, "but we have a problem. An even bigger problem than Goldstein. I found something in his office. I could give it to the police, but I thought we should talk about it first."

Peter picked up a file folder and flipped it open. Then he winced.

"Ah, Christ," Peter muttered as he closed the folder and dropped it.

Matt had gone rigid. He could sense Peter's dismay. He could taste Natasha's slow-burning anger.

"What did you find?" Matt asked slowly.

Natasha drained half her drink. Then she put it down.

"Goldstein knows somebody - a finance person who's even bigger than Goldstein. And he has all of the things that tells the world that someone is important. And it turns out that he has a... a... bunch of girls that are a part of his business. You play nice with him and you get a visit from a sweet young lady. And that's apparently a big draw."

"That's bad, but..." Matt began.

Peter interrupted. "There are pictures here of girls who are maybe thirteen or fourteen years old."

Matt fell silent. His face had the distance of a blind man, but now it was narrow and angry.

"Who is this asshole?" Peter growled.

"His name's Epstein. Jeffrey Epstein."

Peter shook his head. "Never heard of him."

"I have," Matt said. "He's an investment broker who came out of nowhere. One day he was teaching math at a private school, and the next he's climbing the finance ladder. I heard that he got in trouble because of underage girls a few years ago, but the case went his way."

Natasha snorted out an ugly laugh. "'Went his way'. Yes. You could say that."

Then Natasha seemed to settle down. "There are these men," he said quietly - almost thoughtfully. "Men in suits and ties, with offices and jets and islands and limousines. They have money and power. Most of them don't really think the law applies to them. And guess what... they might be right."

"This has to be different," Peter said coldly. "Those girls..."

"Epstein's case is fairly well known in legal circles," Matt interrupted. "After he was caught, it went to court and Epstein was even convicted. As a part of his sentence, he had to sleep overnight in a minimum-security prison, but he was free to spend his days doing what he wanted."

"It was a joke," Natasha said in disgust.

"How'd he pull that off?" Peter asked unbelievingly.

Matt sighed. "He threw money, lawyers, investigators, and powerful friends at the problem. His defense team, all of whom are damn good, flooded the prosecutor with legal paperwork. Meanwhile, his friends got on the phone and called in favors at all levels of government. At the same time, there were private eyes checking on the prosecutor, the cops, the witnesses - even the judge - looking for any kind of exploitable weakness. Who knows what they found?"

Then Natasha spoke up. "Peter... a prosecutor has limits, a budget, and people he has to answer to. So eventually a deal was made. Perhaps the prosecutor wasn't even crooked - just overwhelmed. So Epstein got a very sweet deal considering what he'd done."

"Now what?" Peter asked angrily.

One after the other, Natasha looked at the two men with her. "We need to make up our minds. For reasons good and bad, we steer away from a certain kind of bad-guy. They are people who are actually organized crime bosses but have a very respectable front. And while they do what they want, we chase purse-snatchers."

"We must decide where we stand on this," Natasha finished quietly.

"What's going on with Goldstein?" Peter asked. "You said he was talking to the cops?"

"Yeah, but he might get his nerve back. Then it will be lawyer time."

Matt stirred uneasily.

"Yes, yes, I know," Natasha said through gritted teeth. "The man has rights. Hell, I don't really disagree with that. After all, I grew up in a system where nobody had any rights. And there are people who did nothing wrong and need someone to make sure that they're treated fairly - just look at that Richard Jewell fellow. But people like Goldstein and Epstein are screwing with your system, Matt. Using private eyes who are ex-Mossad agents to do CIA and KGB-level mind tricks against victims and witnesses is something I don't think the police and the courts have any idea how to handle."

"Huh?!" Peter exclaimed in surprise.

"That was Goldstein," Natasha replied. "Epstein also uses private eyes, but I don't know the details yet. It's like this: if you start talking about their boss, those guys suddenly show up and they are all over you. Nothing physical - at least I don't think so - but they begin digging into your private life. And they dig very deep. So deep that people began to decide that pursuing a legal solution isn't worth it - and might be dangerous."

Peter let out a sigh and looked into his beer. "This isn't totally new. The mob bosses, the cartels, some of the bigger gangs - they're all good at keeping themselves out of jail. How long did the FBI chase the Mafia until some of them finally started going to prison? Something like twenty years?"

"But they eventually went to jail," Matt pointed out.

"Eventually," Natasha shot back. "And how many people did Whitey Bulger kill while the Boston FBI office was actually working for him?"

"Who watches the watchmen?" Matt said quietly.

Natasha nodded while Peter wondered why they were suddenly talking about a TV show.

* * *

It was months later.

Peter was in costume, sitting on a roof-top ledge. There was an uneaten hot-dog on a cardboard basket next to him. He was watching a news-crawl on the side of a Times Square building.

Natasha swooped in on a wire and landed on the roof behind Peter. He didn't flinch or react. He didn't even look at her. It was moments like that when Natasha felt it necessary to remind herself just how dangerous Peter could be. Too many people underestimated him. If Peter ever went bad, Natasha really wasn't sure how they would handle him. It would be an Avengers-level problem.

And Natasha had just done something that might have pissed Peter off.

Natasha sat next to Peter. She was very close, but not quite touching him.

She wasn't sure how this was going to go. Sure, Peter had always been more than reasonable with her. But he always struck Natasha as a man who was too decent for his own good. And decent men could be spectacularly dangerous when pushed too far.

"Are you angry?" Natasha asked softly.

Peter inclined his head towards the news-feed that was crawling up the side of the building across the street.

According to the news, Jeffrey Epstein was dead. He'd apparently hung himself in his prison cell.

"Nobody's going to believe that," Peter said.

Natasha nodded. "Others like Epstein will think about his death. About how mysterious and unexpected it was. It might be better if they're left wondering who might be watching... and what they could do."

"Have you talked to Matt yet?" Peter asked.

Natasha nodded again. "He's angry with me. But I've always been good at getting him to forgive me. This time, it may take a while. Perhaps years."

Then Natasha paused before continuing. "On the other hand, I'm not sure about you."

For a long moment, Peter didn't respond. Then he shrugged and picked up his hotdog. "Hungry?" he asked.

Natasha smiled. "I could eat."

Peter carefully split the hotdog in two - some condiments spilled - and handed half of the dog to Natasha.

Natasha brushed some relish and mustard from Peter's thigh and then licked her fingers clean. Not for the first time, she wondered why she'd never tried to seduce Peter. Maybe it was because he was married and also the kind of man who would take that sort of thing seriously?

Lost in different thoughts, they ate companionably.

"The young lady who started this all - the movie actress. How is she doing?" Natasha asked eventually.

"I check in on her whenever she's in town," Peter replied. "So far, she's staying away from balconies."

"Is she back in front of the camera?" Natasha asked curiously.

"Yeah. That started right after Goldstein was arrested. I think some people have guilty consciences about how she and others like her were treated."

"That's good," Natasha said. Then she paused.

"You know, I don't think I've seen any of her movies," Natasha eventually said.

Peter smiled underneath his mask - Natasha could tell. "Want to see her first one? It's called 'Cheerleaders Forever!' It's playing at a revival theater a few blocks south of the square. I haven't seen it yet. Sandra takes her clothes off in one scene. And for some reason, movie nudity is kinda weird when you know the person who's getting naked."

"Let's go see it," Natasha said. Then she leaned her head against Peter's shoulder.

They were silent for a long time.

"What about Goldstein?" Peter eventually asked.

"He's trash," Natasha replied softly. "but he's not Epstein's kind of trash. I'll let the authorities handle it."

Peter thought about that for a while.

"That sounds about right," he said eventually.


End file.
